


Darkly Dawning

by ant5b



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: DW and LP are losers and I will write them as such, Gos is the MVP, M/M, Post-The Duck Knight Returns, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-03-13 19:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18947038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: The making of Darkwing Duck starts with Launchpad and Drake.





	1. Chapter 1

Drake drags himself back to his trailer in full costume, and just lies down on the floor.

He can’t really bear to look at his Darkwing Duck merchandise right now. Nevermind its careful curation over the last two decades, the swap meets he scoured, hours spent hunched over his computer in the dead of night trying to outbid the same two-bit hack in Australia that just wanted the ultra-rare Thunderquack diecast figurine for its resale value.

He’s sure it’ll wear off, but right now whenever he looks at Darkwing’s face all he sees Jim, wreathed in flames and eyes ablaze with fury, revving a chainsaw over his head.

His floor is also surprisingly comfortable, but that might just be his bruised bones talking. He doesn’t care where he is, as long as he isn’t moving.

Some unknowable amount of time later (twenty minutes—he barely has to turn his head to look at the clock) there’s a knock on the door of his trailer.

Before Drake can worry about having to get up, or Godfrey forbid, wrestle his way out of the costume, Launchpad’s voice floats up through the aluminum siding.

“Hey, DW,” he says, “it’s me!”

A smile rises unbidden to Drake’s face. It’s almost too easy to forget that this day hasn’t been all bad.

“Come on in,” he replies. “Door’s open.”

Launchpad enters, already speaking as he steps through the doorway. “So I was talking to Mr. McDee and it looks like we won’t have to worry—” He stops cold, startled by sight Drake is certain he makes.

“Um,” Launchpad says. He smiles bemusedly as he closes the door behind him. “You doing okay, DW?”

“Sure, sure,” Drake replies, flapping a hand in what barely passes for a reassuring gesture. “You were saying?”

Launchpad takes a seat on the floor beside him. “Hm? Oh, yeah,” he says, “I talked to Mr. McDuck, and he’s gonna keep your name out of the official incident report.”

That gets Drake to sit up, never mind his protesting ribs. "What?” he exclaims.

“I figured you wouldn’t want everyone knowing your secret identity before you even got in the game. Mr. McDee agreed to just tell the police that a ‘masked avenger’ kept an actor from blowing up the set.” He looks away at that, hunching his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck, and Drake shares his expression of quiet grief.

“He’s got guys looking for Jim,” Launchpad continues, and shrugs again. “We’ll be the first to know if they find anything, but…”

 _But they won’t,_ goes unsaid.

Drake’s expression tightens as he schools his own emotions. He wishes things hadn’t ended the way they did (he certainly could’ve done without _blowing up_ the man who’d shaped his worldview since he was ten years old), but there was no use dwelling on it now, or letting Launchpad do the same.

He elbows Launchpad amiably, jostling him from his slump. “But hey, thank you for getting that squared away! It probably wouldn’t have occurred to me until the police were dragging me in for questioning.”

But that reminds Drake of something that’s been bothering him since he first saw Launchpad and the kid from the signing in the studio conference room, but had been quickly overshadowed by meeting his idol twice in the same day.

“Actually, Launchpad, how do you even know Scrooge McDuck?” he asks.

Launchpad blinks. “Oh, um, I thought I told you. I’m a—well, I’m his driver.”

Drake gapes at him. “You’re the richest duck in the world’s _driver?”_

“Um,” Launchpad says again. He glances around the trailer as if uncertain. “Well I also—I mean, yeah.”

Drake puts his face in his hands. “That’s amazing. I think I need to lie back down.”

A short, startled burst of laughter escapes Launchpad. But when he speaks he almost sounds wary. “Amazing?” he repeats, like it’s a foreign word.

“Well, yeah,” Drake replies. “It's Scrooge McDuck, the guy's a legend. And you _work_ for him? Do you go on all of those crazy adventures too?”

Launchpad nods. “Yeah, since the kids moved in.”

Drake lifts his head from his hands to stare at Launchpad with wide eyes. “That kid with you at the signing.”

Launchpad chuckles, and the tension that filled him upon mention of his job dissipates from his features and tone. Drake would have to be blind to miss it. “Yeah, that’s Dewey,” he says with such fondness that Drake almost thinks he was mistaken and the kid is actually _Launchpad’s_. “He’s one of Mr. McDee’s great-nephews.”

Drake closes his eyes again. “Great. I almost got one of Scrooge McDuck’s nephews killed.” He lies back down on the floor.

Launchpad, the ingrate, just laughs at him some more. “But you didn’t,” he assures him, “You saved me, and Mr. Boorswan, and everyone in the studio. Not a bad first day, DW."

And Drake knows he’s being sincere because sincere and _very_ sincere seem to be Launchpad’s two default settings. Still, it’s comforting to be on the receiving end.

He hears a phone buzz, and opens his eyes to see Launchpad fishing around in his pocket.

“It’s a text from Dewey,” he explains, once he’s pulled out his cell phone. He peers at the screen for a moment before whistling lowly. “Wow. Apparently the whole thing’s already on the news.”

Drake sits up so fast nearly every one of his exhausted muscles twinges in protest. “Oh, crap,” he says with feeling, pushing himself onto his feet, “Oh, _crap.”_

“What?” Launchpad asks, looking baffled as Drake proceeds to scour the couch cushions. “What is it?”

“My phone, I need to find—” Drake whips his head around, rapidly scanning his trailer. He spots it on the table beside his Darkwing Duck Grim Avenger grape shampoo bottle, where he set it down when he and Launchpad were acting out their Darkwing battle against Hot Couture. “Aha!” he declares, practically lunging for it. As he picks it up, the lock screen alights with a handful of alerts. six missed calls. Four voicemails. Thirteen unanswered texts. The last of which reads: _im coming to the studio!! !_

“Oh, crap,” Drake says again, already in the midst of unlocking his phone. He can feel Launchpad’s silent, worried gaze on his back, but he doesn’t have time to explain right now. He goes to his contacts and selects the most recent.

Drake paces back in forth in front of the couch while the phone rings. He’s grateful for Launchpad’s patience as he stands up and out of the way, clearly waiting for Drake to make the first move.

Finally, there’s a click as his call is answered.

“Where are you right now, young lady?” Drake immediately demands. He pauses, listens, and his beak falls open in shock. “What do you mean you’re on a _bus?_ You know better than to—” He cuts himself of, frowning, and listens in terse silence. “Fine! Fine, okay, I’ll meet you at the bus stop. Do you know which one—I _know_ you’re not a baby, can you please just humor your—”

Drake sighs, lowering the phone from his ear. “She hung up on me.”

“Uh,” Launchpad says, looking like he’s not sure whether he should be worried or amused. “Who was that, DW?”

But Drake is already rushing to his closet, fighting to get the Darkwing suit off and grab a new shirt at the same time. It requires a good bit of wriggling to remove the costume, due in no small part to his current state of panic. He doesn’t look back up until he’s halfway through buttoning his yellow plaid shirt. When he does, he’s a little confused to find that Launchpad is actually staring up at a random spot on the ceiling, his cheeks faintly pink.

“Sorry about that,” he says, and that gets Launchpad to actually look at him. Drake is still tugging his shirt down so it lies flat. “That was my daughter. She snuck out of the house without her babysitter knowing and is on her way here right now. Do you wanna meet her? Y’know, before I ground her for the next month?”

  
  


Gosalyn is sitting at the bus stop, pretty as you please, when Drake arrives panting from having run there from the studio. Launchpad's only a few paces behind him, while Drake struggles to catch his breath and deliver the fatherly diatribe his daughter’s earned.

“Alright, Gos—”

She jerks up at the sound of his voice, looking unaccountably shaken. Drake’s gut sinks like a stone, and he bites down on the remainder of his lecture with brutal efficiency. In the next moment, Gosalyn’s catapulting off the bench and slamming into him so hard she sends him stumbling back a few steps. She wraps her arms tightly around his waist.

“Oh, Gos, sweetheart,” Drake murmurs, kneeling so he can better embrace her. His ire vanishes like flames in a rainstorm, and he cradles the back of Gosalyn’s head with one hand while he rubs comforting circles against her back with the other.

She’s trembling, and her hands are fisted in the back of his shirt, but she’s not crying and that shouldn't be the victory that it is. The first month after he’d adopted her, she’d spent nearly every moment he was apart from her terrified that something terrible would happen to him, and she’d lose him just as she’d lost her grandfather, and her birth parents before him. Nearly a year later these moments are few and far in between and his daughter is a veritable firecracker of deviousness and joy now, but there are still times when she gets these pangs.

“Are you okay?” Gosalyn asks quietly, her voice muffled by his shirt.

Drake chuckles, squeezing her tightly. “Perfectly okay,” he replies, “I’m sorry for scaring you. I was going to tell you what happened tonight, when things had calmed down a little.”

Gosalyn leans back a little in the circle of his embrace, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. “Did you get beat up again?” she asks, sounding like she already knows the answer.

Drake chuckled weakly. “Maybe a little. But, hey, guess what?”

She eyes him suspiciously. “What?”

“I met someone who’s a bigger fan of Darkwing Duck than I am.”

“You mean someone who’s a bigger nerd than you are?” Gosalyn responds immediately. “Not possible.”

Drake looks over his shoulder to where Launchpad is patiently waiting, standing far enough away to give them their privacy but still be within earshot. He gestures for him to join them with a jerk of his head. 

“This is Launchpad,” he says, as the man in question crouches beside them.

“Hey, kiddo,” Launchpad says warmly, extending his hand. “Gosalyn, was it?”

Gosalyn reaches over Drake’s shoulder to shake his hand. “Thanks for being my dad’s friend,” she replies with a perfectly straight face,  “we’ve been worried about how he’d get along with the other kids.”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” Drake grouses while Launchpad just laughs. He sets Gosalyn down and stands back up, but keeps a grounding hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Why don’t we go back to my trailer and talk over what happened...” Drake starts to say, before he turns and sees the confluence of fire trucks and police cars still crowding the lot. “Or, better yet, anyone hungry?”

“I’m hungry,” Gosalyn replies cheekily.

“Alright, Hungry,” Drake says, rolling his eyes but doing little to hide his smile. He glances back at the tall duck beside them. “What do you say, Launchpad? Wanna get out of here?”

Launchpad blinks. “You want me to—uh, yeah. Yeah! Happy to.”

“Great,” Drake replies, and not just because he and Launchpad still have to iron out this whole 'become a real-life superhero' thing he’s gotten himself roped into. “Now we just gotta figure out how to get out of here.”

Gosalyn groans. “You didn’t bring the car?”

“You know as well as I do that I was getting the windshield replaced because of a certain hockey incident.”

“We could always take the bus,” Gosalyn says innocently.

“Oh, right, thank you for reminding me to ground you after this,” Drake replies, only half joking.

“I could drive us,” Launchpad says.

“Really?”

Launchpad shrugs cheerfully. “The limo’s a little banged up but she’ll get us where we need to go.”

 _“Limo_?” Gosalyn exclaims incredulously.  

Drake frowns. “Mr. McDuck won’t need it though? Or you, for that matter?”

 _“Scrooge_ McDuck?”

Launchpad’s ever-present smile dims, as Drake’s noticed it tends to do whenever his job is brought up. “Nah, Mr. McDee’s niece picked them up just a little after I talked to them.”

“You know Scrooge McDuck?” Gosalyn demands of Launchpad.

“Well, yeah, I’m his driver.”

_“What!”_

 

The limousine _is_ a little banged up, but Drake’s attention is more arrested by the prop bushes that have been haphazardly tied to it.

“It um...it was part of Jim’s plan,” Launchpad says before Drake can ask. He doesn’t look at Drake as he cuts the ropes and stacks the bushes off to the side.

Drake’s distracted by Gosalyn, who’s literally hopping in place beside him, a poorly-contained storm of excitement. “I’ve never been in a limo before,” she enthuses, and Drake is gratified to see it bring a smile back to Launchpad’s face.

“Well then,” Launchpad says, opening the passenger side door grandly, “your chariot awaits.”

Gosalyn squeals, which she’ll deny with her dying breath if Drake ever brings it up, and dives inside.

Drake shakes his head with a sigh, “Well, you’ve officially ruined her for my Duck Corolla. She’ll only let me drive her to school in a limo from now on.”

Launchpad takes his jest in stride, leaning slightly against the door. “Sorry about that, DW,” he says, though judging by his smile he isn’t particularly.

But Launchpad still doesn’t move to the driver’s side. Instead, he regards Drake with an almost expectant look, like he’s waiting for Drake to get in the back with Gosalyn first.

It’s a startling realization, but one that Drake almost uncomfortably understands. Launchpad’s treating him like he does the people he drives for, important men like Scrooge McDuck and Jim Startling, who expect that difference in status to be respected. Drake doesn’t know if Launchpad really sees him in that way, or if it’s just what he expects, but the idea of that sits sourly in Drake’s gut.

“You alright, DW?” Launchpad asks, his smile dimmed by concern. “Did you change your mind about going out to eat?”

Has Launchpad even called him by his name? Or did Drake immediately become Darkwing; someone above, someone other? Well, Drake Mallard is no Jim Starling, and he needs Launchpad to know that starting now.

“Come on, Dad!” Gosalyn chimes in, sticking her head out of the car. “Your daughter’s wasting away over here!”

“Alright, hold your horses,” Drake replies. He steps forward and closes Gosalyn’s door for her.  

Looking startled, Launchpad straightens up from where the open door had partially hidden him.

Drake moves just a little bit closer, until he’s toeing the line of Launchpad’s personal space. As he does so, Launchpad’s face goes a little pink, a charming flush traveling up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Launchpad,” he says, smiling warmly. “Call me Drake.”

“Uh,” Launchpad says, eyes wide. “Okay, D...Drake.”

Satisfied, Drake steps around him to the passenger side door. He opens it and sit inside, closing the door behind him.

Gosalyn’s already messing with the controls to the roll-up partition, which he’ll have to tell her to stop soon, likely blind and and deaf to whatever the adults around her are doing.

It takes Launchpad a moment to join him inside, and he fails to open the driver side door a couple times before he finally manages to yank it wide. He sits down and buckles himself in before he looks at Drake again.

“D-Drake,” he says again, stumbling a bit over the name still, “You sure to don’t wanna sit with Gosalyn? A ride in a limo is a once in a lifetime opportunity, after all.”

Drake busies himself with his own seatbelt as he replies, “I’m not gonna sit in the back while my friend drives us around. Besides, if Gos has her way, we’ll definitely be seeing the inside of a limo again.”

Launchpad’s smile is slow to grow, but it’s a small, disbelieving thing that makes Drake’s heart leap into his throat.

“Alright,” Launchpad says much more cheerfully as he starts the ignition, “Where to?”

He guns the engine, and immediately rams the limousine into the studio wall.

 

Drake directs them to a quaint, family-owned diner filled with 1950s memorabilia and a classic menu of burgers and milkshakes. They find a booth in a tucked away corner, and Drake may be exhausted but there’s nowhere he’d rather be than here.

Gosalyn has ketchup smeared on her cheek but hasn’t noticed yet, and Drake doesn’t have the heart to point it out. Launchpad’s removed his jacket and placed it over the back of the booth, revealing large muscular arms and more of his barrel-chested frame than Drake’s seen yet. It’s almost enough to distract him as Gosalyn proceeds to tell Launchpad his entire life story.

“You’re a stunt double?” Launchpad asks, holding a half-forgotten french fry halfway to his beak.

“Dad was the best stunt double _ever!”_ Gosalyn insists.

 _“Was?”_ Drake repeats.

Gosalyn rolls her eyes with a huff. _“Is_ the best stunt double ever.”

“I was wondering how you fought so good,” Launchpad comments. “That explains things.”

Gosalyn’s eyes are positively sparkling, and Drake only has half a second to feel any sense of foreboding. “You guys fought each other? Like—” She stands up on the bench and makes various martial arts poses, with accompanying sound effects, throwing her arms out and nearly knocking over her and Drake’s drinks.  

“Sit down,” Drake says. “Launchpad and I just had a misunderstanding.”

“Boo,” Gosalyn replies, plopping back into her seat. “You promised you’d tell me what happened.” She looks up at Drake, her eyes wide and hurt in her sad, pouting face, but he’s had a while to get used to this look since he adopted her. Drake’s basically immune to it now.

“And I will,” Drake says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Later.”

Gosalyn groans. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m your dad, I’m not supposed to be fun” Drake replies. He meets Launchpad’s gaze with a mischievous look. “Right, Launchpad?”

Launchpad makes a show of looking coy. “I dunno, being president of the Darkwing Duck fan club is pretty fun.”

Gosalyn makes a despairing sound and buries her face in her hands. “There’s two of them. I’m doomed.”

Drake leans over to smooth her messy hair. “Are the dramatics really necessary?” he asks. When she nods decisively, he tugs gently on one of her pigtails.

“Hey!” she protests, giggling as she bats his hand away.

Drake chuckles and returns to what remains of his french fries.

Gosalyn prods his side after a moment, dangerously close to his ticklish spot and she knows it. “Scoot over, Dad,” she says, “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

He slides out of the booth to let her pass. “Do you need help finding—”

“There are signs, _Dad,”_ Gosalyn retorts longsufferingly, and Drake can’t help but watch her fondly as she walks away.

“Your daughter’s really something, Drake,” Launchpad says honestly. There’s barely a minute pause over his name, which he notes with growing relief.

“Yeah,” Drake replies, turning back to face Launchpad across the booth. He folds his arms on the table. “I’m lucky.”

Launchpad leans back, looking off into some far corner of the restaurant as he rubs the back of his neck. “I meant to ask,” he says slowly, “Gosalyn’s mom, is she…”

Drake has had this conversation more times than he can count, but for the first time he's not annoyed by it. Far from it, as he hurries to nip Launchpad’s train of thought in the bud. “I’m not married,” he says, “I adopted Gosalyn about a year ago.”

“Oh, wow,” Launchpad says, beaming and breathtakingly earnest. “Not a lot of people would do that. It’s amazing that you guys found each other.” He leans forward, and in the enclosed space of the booth it feels very intimate, like they could be the only people in the restaurant.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Drake replies with a slight shrug, because what else can he say? Even after all this time he sometimes can’t believe she’s in his life. But with that thought, he sobers.

“I’m going to tell her what happened tonight,” Drake says. “Everything: Jim, you, the movie, what I...what I want to do.” He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Gosalyn’s the deciding vote. If she decides she doesn’t want me to be Darkwing, then...then I won’t be.”

Launchpad fiddles with the straw of his drink, shoulders hunched in such a way that makes him look small in a way that has nothing to do with physical size. “If I knew you had a daughter, I wouldn’t have said anything,” he confesses, expression chagrined.

Drake reaches over the table to clasp Launchpad’s forearm, and his nervous fidgeting stops immediately.

“I’m glad you did,” Drake assures him. He squeezes Launchpad’s arm. “And even if I don’t become Darkwing, I still got to meet you. And...if you’d still be willing to stick around, even without Darkwing—”

“Are you kidding?” Launchpad exclaims. He covers Drake’s hand with his own, broad and callused against Drake’s knuckles. “You’re amazing, Darkwing or not. I don’t think ever I’ve met someone like you.”

Drake hardly has time to start blushing before Launchpad goes on to say a little too glibly, “I mean, not everyone owns a Hyper-Rare  Battle Hat Darkwing Duck action figure!”

Drake snorts, and covers his face with his free hand. But when he looks back at Launchpad, he’s a little stunned to see his expression hasn’t changed. Rather, there’s something quietly fond and wry about it that has Drake going a bit pink. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever looked at him like that.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m feeling dessert,” Gosalyn announces as she returns to the table. She startles Drake so badly that he almost knocks over his drink in his haste to let go of Launchpad’s arm.

“I could go for dessert,” Launchpad replies, appearing vexingly unaffected while Drake nearly trips getting out of the booth so Gosalyn can sit back down.

“Kids who are grounded don’t get dessert,” Drake says once he regains mastery of his beak. But he waves over a passing server all the same.   
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gosalyn is the deciding vote. Always.

 

Drake feels guilty asking Launchpad to drive them all the way to St. Canard

Though, to be fair, he doesn’t even need to ask. When they loop back to the studio to empty out his trailer, Launchpad takes one look at the sheer amount of Darkwing Duck memorabilia that’ll need to be packed and transported, and cheerfully says, “Looks like you guys could use some help getting all this back home.”

From that point Launchpad refuses to be swayed, least of all by Drake’s half-hearted attempts at changing his mind. It doesn’t help that Gosalyn is particularly effusive in her gratitude, mostly because she won’t have as much work to do in helping Drake pack. 

“It took  _ forever  _ to help Dad put all of this up,” she confides to Launchpad in an exaggerated state whisper, “he moved that poster with Tuskernini on it five times before putting it back in the same place.”

Launchpad chuckles as he takes down the aforementioned poster, carefully rolling it up to slip it into its poster tube. “I’m surprised you know Tuskernini,” he comments curiously, “I didn’t think you liked the show.”

“She watches the reruns with me to make fun of them,” Drake says distractedly. 

He’s not entirely focused on their conversation, as comforting as it is that they seem to be getting along. Drake’s staring at his vintage, limited edition 1991 Darkwing Duck cast poster that he’s taken off the wall but can’t bring himself to put away. Jim Starling looks back at him, smiling daringly like the real thing never did, and the guilt tunneling away at Drake’s gut since the explosion widens into a pit. 

How can he think of donning the cape and cowl of the man he idolized, and who hated him in return? Being Darkwing Duck was all Jim had, and Drake is considering taking that from him, irrevocably. 

A hand lands on his shoulder, gentle and grounding. Drake tears his gaze from the poster to look up Launchpad, who’s smiling in that small, sympathetic way of his. 

“Why don’t you leave this to Gosalyn and me,” Launchpad says, both of them ignoring Gosalyn’s immediate annoyed groan, “you’ve got clothes and other stuff here too, right?”

Drake’s mouth is dry, and he feels vaguely ill. “I mean, if you’re sure —”

Launchpad quietly takes the poster out of Drake’s hands, answering his unfinished question. 

He wonders in that moment how Launchpad is handling all of this. For all that Drake has modeled his life after Darkwing’s tenets, Launchpad understood the character, understood the man behind Darkwing Duck, better than Drake ever had or ever will. They both watched the explosion engulf Jim Starling, but Launchpad had been the one Jim had died saving. 

Launchpad seems unperturbed, and after the shock and horror of the explosion he looked at Drake with compassion and held his hat out to him. But certainly that isn’t all there is. 

Drake can’t exactly ask him anything about that now, in his brightly lit trailer with Gosalyn five feet away and none the wiser. So instead he nods, hoping his gratitude comes through in his smile, and goes to pack up his Super Pigeontendo. 

 

The drive to St. Canard is quiet, only occasionally broken up by Drake giving directions. 

It’s night now, the sun sinking in a blooming pink and orange sky as they crossed the Audubon Bay Bridge. Gosalyn is asleep in the backseat, cuddling Drake’s big Darkwing Duck plush that he’s definitely going to lose to her bedroom again now that it’s coming back home. 

Drake glances over at Launchpad, watching the play of streetlights skimming across his face. The radio is playing softly, and Launchpad taps his finger against the steering wheel in time with the beat. 

The silence between them is comfortable, so of course Drake has to go and ruin it. 

“Launchpad...are you okay?”

Launchpad swerves abruptly, and almost hits a mailbox. 

It’s a testament to how accustomed Drake’s become to Launchpad’s driving that he only braces himself a little, rather than crying out in alarm. Drake cranes his head back to check on Gosalyn too, but she’s still sound asleep, now nearly recumbent in the backseat. 

Launchpad’s eyes are a little wide when Drake turns back around, and his shoulders have gone narrow with tension. He looks over at Drake for half a second, and back at the road before Drake can glean any meaning from his expression. 

“Uh, what-what do you mean?” Launchpad replies, far too calmly. 

Now more than a little concerned, Drake says, “I mean, today was...a lot. After everything that happened with Jim, I wanted to make sure you were, y’know, that you were okay.”

“Oh.” Launchpad releases his deathgrip on the steering wheel, which Drake belatedly notices he was clutching so tightly. “I...I think so,” he says slowly, “I guess a part of me still believes he isn’t gone, but the chances of that are…” He shakes his head. “I wish I could’ve seen what he was becoming. Before—before everything. Maybe he wouldn’t have done all those terrible things and he’d still be around.”

“Never meet your heroes, huh?” Drake asks wryly, though his voice is tempered by a deeper grief, and his throat feels a little raw. 

“Jim wasn’t my hero,” Launchpad says thoughtfully, startling Drake, “I mean, not exactly. As a kid Darkwing Duck, the character, was my hero and Jim played Darkwing Duck, so…” He shrugs, beak curling wistfully, and Drake imagines that he’s reminiscing on his childhood. Drake is a little embarrassed to admit even to himself that he wants to know what it was like, curious if he and Launchpad are similar in even more ways. 

But like a cloud blocking out the sun, Launchpad’s expression darkens. “I think for Jim, being Darkwing stopped being about helping other people, if it ever was. But you,” Launchpad looks at Drake with an expression that’s a little like awe, and Drake’s heart skips a beat. “All you want to do is help people. That’s why you’ll make a great Darkwing.” He breaks their gaze to turn back to the road, and he jerks his head to indicate the backseat with a smile. “Gosalyn permitting, of course.” 

Drake doesn’t know what to say. What can he say, really, in the face of such utter faith? It’s humbling, and almost reminds him of the way Gosalyn’s trust in him inspires him to try harder, to be better. It’s similar, but not quite the same, because Gosalyn while looks up to him in the way he wishes he could’ve looked up to his parents, Launchpad does so with a different sort of trust. 

Launchpad looks at Drake like he’s already seen Drake accomplish every impossible thing, and is just waiting for him to notice. And for Drake, someone so prone to second guessing himself, this regard is almost overwhelming. 

They arrive at Drake’s apartment before he can think of an appropriate response. Launchpad only crashes into a fire hydrant a little bit, and says, “Looks like we’re here!”

With Gosalyn still asleep, Drake decides to take care of unpacking the limo first. Launchpad helps him drop everything off in his personal garage, which somehow looks more cluttered with his car gone. He’ll organize everything later, when he isn't in danger of falling asleep on his feet. 

Soon all that’s left is to carry Gosalyn up to their apartment, but Drake lingers by the front of the limo with Launchpad despite his exhaustion. It’s truly dark now, the glow from a few of the complex’s windows eclipsed by the harshness of the limo’s headlights, which his and Launchpad’s shadows cut through starkly. 

The silence between them now is pregnant with something Drake can’t name, but fills him with nerves all the same. In an attempt to dispel the heavy air, he blows out a breath, placing his hands on his waist. 

“So. Some day, huh?”

Launchpad smiles, expression soft and shadowed as he leans against the limo. “I’d say so.”

Drake looks away, scrubbing a hand up his face and into his hair. “At this point I’d be willing to put off telling Gos everything till the morning, but knowing her she’ll wake up and won’t go back to sleep  _ until _ she knows.”

The future of Darkwing Duck rests in his daughter’s hands, and it’s a sobering thought. But there’s no one else he trusts to make the choice for him. Drake looks back at the closed back door of the limo, where Gosalyn continues to sleep, exhausted by the day’s stressors. 

“I’d should probably get her inside,” Drake mutters, largely to himself, but of course Launchpad hears him too. 

“Oh, yeah.” Launchpad startles, and Drake sees him straighten out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll, uh...I guess I’ll see you around, DW.”

Drake doesn’t even think to address how Launchpad’s reverted to calling him Darkwing when his tone has shifted to one that Drake’s never heard from him before. The words themselves are vague, in the same way so many of Drake’s attempts at friendship have ended; with a bright smile and false promises and commitments that always fall through. But Launchpad sounds hesitant, not like he’s eager to end their interaction or sorry that he won’t be upholding his half of future ones. 

However, that only alarms Drake more because doesn’t Launchpad know he wants to see him again? Did he forget their conversation in the diner? Or, worse, does he think Drake was only joking?

He turns to study Launchpad’s face and he doesn’t see impatience or apology there. Instead Launchpad seems achingly hopeful, and maybe a little bit sad, as he looks at Drake like he’s half expecting him to vanish into thin air. 

Drake understands what it’s like when something feels like it’s too good to be true. He felt this way when Gosalyn first started calling him ‘Dad,’ and still does even now. He felt it when he was offered the part of Darkwing Duck, after years of being relegated to stunt double for so many of the productions he auditioned for. 

He felt it in the calm following his and Launchpad’s aborted fight in his trailer, when Launchpad recognized every piece of rare merch he owned and treated them with awe and respect. He felt it when he ducked behind a crate to join Launchpad in relative safety from the ongoing chaos, the stage aflame and Jim Starling unraveling at the seams as he fired the ray gun with reckless abandon. They said, “Let’s get dangerous” in sync, like they’d been saying it together their whole lives, and  _ it had felt so right.  _

Drake can’t bear to have Launchpad second-guessing this inexplicable, nameless thing between them, not now when everything is so new and fragile. 

So Drake steps forward, earnest as anything, and says, “How about next week?”

Launchpad looks a little stunned. “Yeah?” He asks, “You sure? I mean, whatever Gosalyn decides, I wouldn’t wanna be in the way—“

Drake wonders what Launchpad’s life is like that he expects friendship to come with a caveat. 

“I want to see you again,” Drake blurts as smoothly as he can, which isn’t very smoothly at all. But Launchpad has been nothing but honest with him and he deserves the same in return. “Darkwing or no Darkwing. If...if that’s what you want,” he says, and if his voice wavers, well, it’s because no one has ever thought Drake Mallard was worth sticking around for. 

“Yeah,” Launchpad says again, still a little disbelieving, but his smile is bright and almost bashful as he ducks his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets of his jacket. “Yeah, Drake. I’d like that.” 

Drake. Not Darkwing. 

He can feel his face burning red as he smiles in pleased silence, and he’s glad that the cover of night at least lets him conserve some of his dignity.

“Oh, uh, here,” Launchpad says, pulling out his phone. “If you want to put your number in…”

“Yeah, of course,” Drake says quickly, willing his blush to go away as he moves to take Launchpad’s phone. He has a brief moment of ridiculous panic over whether he should put his name down as Drake or Drake Mallard or Drake M., and in equally ridiculous fashion decides on the second one. 

He hands the phone back to Launchpad, who glances down at the screen and chuckles. “Drake Mallard, huh?” he says, in the same tone of voice he used in the studio. But this time, when he looks back up his expression is disarmingly coy. “I think I’ve heard of you.”

Drake feels his phone buzz with a text message not a moment later. 

“And now you have my number,” Launchpad says, his smile guileless once more. 

“Right,” Drake says dumbly, “Great.” 

For a panicked second he wonders if he should try to shake Launchpad’s hand or move to hug him. Instead, he does an about-face and goes to get Gosalyn out of the car. 

She wakes as soon as Drake picks her up, murmuring a sleepy, “Dad?” against his shoulder. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, “we’re home.”

Gosalyn grumbles and pushes against his chest. “I can walk,” she mutters, sounding no more awake than she did a moment ago.  

Drake chuckles into her hair. “I know you can, honey.”

He walks back over to Launchpad, stuffing his self-consciousness down as he hikes Gosalyn up higher in his arms. “Thank you again, Launchpad. For this, and for...everything else.”

Launchpad doffs his chauffeur’s cap. “Don’t even mention it.” Then he waves to Gosalyn, who has turned to sleepily peer over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Gosalyn.”

Gosalyn raises her hand in a little wave. “You too, LP,” she says quietly, and Launchpad beams, clearly charmed. 

Though he’s relieved that Launchpad seems fond of Gosalyn, and that the sentiment is returned, inwardly Drake groans. Isn’t it enough that Gosalyn already has him wrapped around her little finger? 

Launchpad waves once more before they enter their apartment building, and the memory of it warms Drake all the way up to their front door. 

  
  
  


Gosalyn is awake and brimming with energy before the elevator even reaches their floor. She dashes through the doors the moment they slide open, and Drake trudges tiredly after her. 

“Gos, honey, maybe tone it down a little?” he calls, “it’s already —” he glances down at his Waddlewatch, and has to do a double take. 

_ 7:58 _ his watch reads, to Drake’s utter disbelief. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it was  _ midnight  _ after such a terrifying, tumultuous day. Did he really go to Sofa Rick’s this morning for Jim Starling’s autograph signing? It feels as if though it happened a week ago. 

Gosalyn’s waiting at the door to their apartment when Drake finally catches up with her. “Can we order pizza?” she asks, as Drake’s in the process of pulling out his keys. 

Drake snorts incredulously. “We just ate!”

Gosalyn, or the bottomless pit that is his daughter, just shrugs. “We can order it later.”

“Oh no,” Drake says, unlocking the door. “‘We’ are doing nothing of the sort. You, little missy, are grounded remember?” 

Gosalyn gapes at him. “You were serious?”

“Yes, I was serious,” Drake says, as he starts to enter their apartment. “You snuck out behind your babysitter’s back and took a bus to a whole other city. You are  _ grounded  _ grounded.”

But Gosalyn doesn’t move from the doorway. She’s crossed her arms with a scowl, and glares off to the side. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she mutters. 

Drake’s heart breaks a little at the hurt in his daughter’s voice. He walks back over to Gosalyn, taking her shoulders in his hands as he crouches before her. “I know you did, sweetheart. But I need you to trust that I can take care of myself. What if something had happened to you on your way to the studio? I’d never forgive myself.” 

He brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “You’ll always be my hero, Gos, but you’re a little too young to be leaping to my rescue just yet.”

Gosalyn’s glare softens into a pout. “I’m your hero?” she asks quietly, and not a little bit mischievously. 

“Of course,” Drake replies seriously, “you saved me from a lifetime of boredom. I don’t think I did anything but play with action figures until I met you.”

Gosalyn pushes him away with a laugh. “You still play with action figures!”

“Well I guess you’ve still got your work cut out for you,” Drake says, chuckling as he stands back up. 

This time she leads the way into the apartment, if only to throw herself dramatically on the couch. “Can I at least watch a movie?” Gosalyn asks in faux misery, “or does the warden say that’s off-limits too?”

Drake rolls his eyes as he closes the front door behind him. “You act like you’ve never been grounded before.”

“Is that a yes on the movie then?”

“No, that’s a ‘go take a bath, you’re covered in bus germs.’”

Gosalyn stands imperiously on the couch cushions, planting her fists on her waist. “Aren’t you always saying that it’s important to support public transportation?”

“I am,” Drake confirms, plucking her off the couch and setting her back on the floor. “But the buses in St. Canard are, to put it mildly, extremely gross.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gosalyn grumbles, stomping off in the direction of the bathroom. 

Drake has to swallow around a stone in his throat to speak again. “After your bath I’ll tell you a story before bed, how does that sound?”

“A story?” Gosalyn asks curiously, looking back at him. She makes a face. “It’s not a Darkwing Duck story, is it?”

Drake laughs a little wetly. “Sort of, sweetheart.” 

She gives him a weird look, but ducks into the bathroom without further comment. Once the door closes after her, Drake slumps on the couch like a puppet with its strings cut. Fatigue has wrapped itself in lead weights around his limbs, and his eyelids hang heavy. 

He fishes out his cell phone and sees the alert for the text message Launchpad had sent him. 

_ See you next week _

A smile rises to Drake’s beak before he even has to think about it. He saves Launchpad’s number, before resting his head against the back of the couch. He tells himself he’s only going to close his eyes for a few minutes. 

 

Drake doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Gosalyn is nudging him awake. 

“Buh?” he mumbles, jerking his head forward. 

Gosalyn looks back at him from the side of the couch, her hair hanging loose and damp and wearing dinosaur pajamas. “You’ll hurt your neck again if you sleep on the couch,” she informs him primly. 

She’s not wrong, Drake admits, as he leans forward and rubs the back of his already aching neck. “Thanks, kiddo,” he says, more clearly now. 

“Sooo,” Gosalyn says, clinging to the arm of the couch as she rocks back on her heels. “I believe I was promised a story as part of my prison sentence?”

Drake chuckles softly. “That you were.” He rises from the couch, cracking his back in the process. 

He follows Gosalyn to her room. As usual, it looks as though it’s been hit by a small hurricane, clothes and shoes and books and toys scattered throughout like it’s their sole purpose to be a tripping hazard for Drake. Only the lamp on Gosalyn’s nightstand is lit, illuminating the room in a soft blue glow through the lampshade. 

Gosalyn hops into bed, more willingly than she would on any other night. Either she’s still tired, or she’s trying to get out of a longer grounding by following his every instruction. Based on the almost angelic smile she gifts him with, Drake is fairly certain it’s the latter. 

Giving her a look to let her know he isn’t fooled, Drake takes a seat on the bed beside her. He busies himself with smoothing down Gosalyn’s comforter and tucking her in, until she begins to wriggle impatiently. 

“Daad,” she singsongs. 

Feigning ignorance, Drake continues messing with the comforter until he’s covered her face with it. 

“Dad!” she laughs, shoving the blanket back down, “You said you were gonna tell me a story.”

“I know, I know,” Drake says, and stills his nervous fidgeting by clasping one hand over the other. But he can’t bring himself to speak. 

Gosalyn sits up in bed. “Is everything okay?” she asks, her face pinched with worry. Pity the fool who thought they could get one over on his daughter. 

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” he’s quick to assure her, “it’s just that today’s been a long day, and I don’t know where to start.”

“Oh,” she says, leaning back against her pillows. “Is Launchpad in your story?”

Drake smiles at the driver’s name. “Yeah, he is. What did you think of him?”

“He’s pretty cool,” Gosalyn replies casually, high praise really. “He’s nerdy like you.”

“I guess he is, huh?” Drake says, and like that, he knows how to start this story. He just hopes Launchpad won’t be offended by the way in which he does so (Drake knows he won't). 

“You know, I met him this morning at the signing. He got so excited to meet Jim Starling that he fainted on me.”

Gosalyn giggles. “No way.”

“Way.”

And so Drake tells her everything. 

Well, not everything. He doesn’t talk about the crushing blow Jim’s rejection dealt him, how small it made Drake feel to have his idol want him dead, and then  _ really  _ want him dead. He doesn’t talk about the pain of being electrocuted over and over, or Jim holding a chainsaw over his head. 

But Drake endeavours to be honest, so he tells her about Launchpad initially trying to lock him in his trailer. He tells her about Launchpad’s support and Jim’s betrayal, and the attack on the studio. He tells her about how he saved all but one. 

He tells her that there will never be a Darkwing Duck movie, but maybe there can still be a Darkwing. 

“And, I don’t know, what Launchpad said just got me thinking,” Drake says, and he’s hunched over now, elbows resting on his thighs and he can’t quite bring himself to look at Gosalyn. “Maybe I can help people, as Darkwing. I mean,  _ really  _ help people. Maybe I can make St. Canard safer for you, and for other kids like you.”

“Like Gizmoduck?” Gosalyn asks, far too innocently, and Drake would’ve noticed if he weren’t so wrapped up in his thoughts. 

“ _ No _ , not like Gizmoduck,” he retorts on instinct, only to nearly be propelled off the bed when Gosalyn throws herself at his side in a tight hug. 

“Are you asking me if you can be a superhero?” she says, her voice tight, and for the life of him, Drake doesn’t know if it’s from sadness or excitement. His own bafflement lasts only a moment before he wraps his arms around Gosalyn in return. He holds her as close as he can, which she would normally protest at. 

“Only if you’re okay with it,” he says fiercely. “You say the word and Darkwing goes back in the box, like all the other stuff in the garage.”

Gosalyn pushes against his arms, and Drake loosens his hold enough for her to lean back. He’s relieved that she doesn’t seem upset. But instead she looks rather serious. 

“It’ll be dangerous,” she says, and Drake hates how familiar she is with that truth. “Will you have someone watching your back?”

Drake’s beak twitches up in a melancholy smile. “Darkwing Duck usually works alone.”

“But you won’t,” Gosalyn says decisively. “You’ll have me. And-and you’ll have Launchpad. Right?”

Drake hasn’t stopped to consider it. 

Well, no, that’s a lie. 

_ Let's get dangerous,  _ they’d said together, and Drake can imagine saying it with him a hundred times more. 

“I think so,” Drake says honestly. “I hope so.”

Gosalyn remains quiet for a long moment. 

In the space between breaths, Drake imagines taking to the night under cape and cowl. He makes the name of a gaudy, long forgotten television show into a beacon for the downtrodden, as it was for him. He makes the name into one criminals fear, until the dark alleys and street corners they employ to terrorize the innocent become his haven, and they are left without recourse. 

Drake imagines packing the hat and costume away, and going on with his life. He keeps up with stunt work, and within a year lands a real role in an action movie, his second chance at a big break. He and Gosalyn, and maybe even Launchpad, have movie nights and celebrate birthdays parties and Gosalyn never has to worry that one night her father might not come home. 

Gosalyn interrupts Drake’s trance with a simple, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Drake repeats, uncertain.

“You’re my hero too, Dad,” Gosalyn says, with an utter sincerity that brings tears to Drake’s eyes. “Now you get to be everyone else’s, too.”

Drake draws her close once more, unable to help himself. He presses a kiss to her hair. “There’s no pressure, okay, sweetheart? You can change your mind in the morning if you want.”

“I won’t change my mind,” she replies around a yawn. The day’s catching up to her at a rapid pace, judging by the way she starts blinking more than usual, fighting to keep her eyes open. 

He eases her back onto the bed and tucks the blanket around her once more. But when Drake goes to stand, she latches onto his sleeve. 

“Stay here?” she asks sleepily. 

Gosalyn’s bed is a twin, and barely large enough to fit both of them. But as he will on this and any other night, Drake indulges her. 

“Sure, Gos,” he says, and picks her up so he can slip beneath the covers. The only way they both fit is with her half on his chest and tucked against his side, encircled by his embrace. He reaches out briefly to turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness that is only staved off by the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. 

The sound of their breathing in the quiet room, offset by the by the bleating of distant traffic, begins to lull Drake to sleep. He’s on the verge of drifting away altogether when Gosalyn says, “if you’re a superhero, does that mean I can be your sidekick?”

“Absolutely not,” Drake replies tiredly. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Launchpad gets a wake-up call.

 

The drive back to Duckburg is uneventful, and at his usual twenty-miles-over-the-speed-limit it takes him less than an hour. 

Though the sun went down hours ago, it’s not terribly late. The mansion’s windows are still alight, blazing bright in the darkness atop Killmotor Hill. Usually Launchpad would take that as an invitation to join them, but since dropping Drake and Gosalyn off he’s been lost inside his own head and is no longer suitable for the company. 

Twelve hours after he left, Launchpad pulls into the garage and shuts off the engine. 

When he steps out of the limo, he finds everything exactly as he left it before he rushed off to the autograph signing that morning. Last night's empty takeout boxes are stacked on the kitchen counter and the pan he burned breakfast on is sitting in the sink where he left it to soak.

 It’s maddeningly normal, as though his entire life hasn’t been upended in the meager twelve hours he’s been gone. 

He blinks and he sees Jim leveling the cannon with Alastair Boorswan’s head, the flames licking up the wall matching the hatred burning in his eyes. 

Launchpad’s next breath comes out choked, and the reality of his dingy loft rushes back to greet him. His tie suffocates him, and he struggles to loosen it as he stumbles over to the couch. Only once the knot no longer feels like it’s digging into the base of his throat does he breathe out in a rush. His knees are shaking so badly it’s a struggle not to let himself fall onto the cushions. 

He looks around for something to ground him.

In front of him there are a few crumpled napkins and drink rings staining the coffee table he bought second hand two years ago. The couch itself has stuffing coming out of it at the seams and there’s a broken spring in the middle cushion that makes it impossible to sit anywhere other than right on the edge. 

His televideo has a cracked screen and bent antenna and the plastic casing on the left side is held in place entirely with duct tape. He never got around to repairing it after that fateful crash in the Sunchaser.

How many nights has he spent here, on this couch, his feet propped up on this coffee table, watching rerun after rerun of  _ Darkwing Duck _ as his home went to seed around him? When did he stop cooking and start shoving Granny McQuack’s recipe book to the back of the kitchen cabinet? When did he start letting adventure come to him and stop seeking it out for himself? 

Launchpad sees the garage for what it is and has always been: a mess. And for maybe the first time, he’s aware enough to be embarrassed by it. It’s not as though he ever made an effort to keep it clean, much less turn it into a home. And maybe he never meant to. 

Two years ago Scrooge offered him a room in the mansion and Launchpad turned him down because he thought the job would be temporary. Until now, all of his jobs have been the work of weeks or months before he was gently let go, hastily fired, or tossed out the airlock of a plane at 10,000 feet with a pink slip and a parachute shoved into his hands.  

So he contented himself with a cold garage and a hammock instead of a bed because it wasn’t meant to last. I mean, chauffeur for the richest duck in the world? Launchpad is an optimist, not an idiot. 

When he started out there were no kids, no Della, and certainly no adventures. The daring, larger than life hero whose exploits he’d followed well past his teens was small and gray in reality and lived in a lonely mansion with perpetually dark windows. 

At the time, Launchpad considers himself lucky if he lasts until the end of the week, much less the month. One bad crash and the man formerly known as the world’s greatest adventurer will have him searching the classifieds faster than you can say ‘financial liability.’ 

But then a crash-riddled week goes by and Launchpad doesn’t hear a whisper about being let go. It’s not like Scrooge isn’t a vocal passenger. He’s constantly chiding Launchpad on his driving, urging him to slow down or speed up irrespective of speed limit, and reminds him every single morning to pick him up from the Money Bin at two o’clock sharp, “or I’ll lock you in a room with those buzzards for five hours and see how you like it.” 

When Scrooge offers him in a room in the mansion, Launchpad thinks he’s doing them both a favor by insisting he take the garage instead. No matter how much Scrooge seems to tolerate him, his jobs have always been temporary. So he treats this job as he would any other and treats each day like it’s the last time he’ll hear Scrooge’s sniping, answer Webby’s abundance of questions, smile in the face of Mrs. Beakley’s scrutiny. 

Then Huey, Dewey, and Louie arrive in a whirlwind of monsters and life-threatening danger, and Launchpad finds himself flying a plane that’s nearly older than his father and loving every minute of it. He realizes too late that he has something like a place in this growing family; a seat at the dinner table, Dewey’s admiration, Donald’s trust.

By refusing Scrooge’s offer two years ago, he damned himself to a life spent on the outside looking in. 

None of that excuses turning the garage into a bachelor pad, and the bachelor pad of a slob at that. His couch is stained, his posters are peeling, and his rug is threadbare, to say nothing of the dirty laundry he leaves scattered everywhere but in the laundry basket. He’s thirty years old, he lives in his boss’ garage, and a few hours ago he watched Jim Starling give up his life to save him. 

He has to make the sacrifice worth it. 

Launchpad finds himself standing before he makes a conscious choice to do so. 

He grabs the old napkins on the coffee table and a crumpled Hamburger Hippo takeout bag on the floor and moves to the kitchen to deposit them in the trash can. Once that’s done he turns back around to pick up an armful of empty energy drink cans he’d made a game of stacking into a tower a few weeks ago and promptly forgotten about. 

Once he’s packed the trash can as densely as he can make it, he directs his attention to the mountain of dirty dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink and on the counters on either side of it. 

After unearthing a cleanish sponge and dish soap from the cabinets under the sink, he focuses first on scrubbing the burned pancake batter off the pan he used that morning. It’s easy to lose himself in the routine of harsh scrubbing, rinsing, and drying. His mind wanders past his pounding heartbeat until the source of his wordless anxiety presents itself in the familiar drive to do something right for once. 

He thinks of Drake, his feathers slightly scorched and soot-stained, broad shoulders bowed as they watch smoke rise from what remains of the set. Stunned, still a little lost,  _ what, be a superhero?  _ meant with incredulity but Launchpad hears the same thread of hope he did in the trailer,  _ maybe I can be on the lunchbox that inspires some other kid like me.  _

_Do it for Jim,_ he says, like it’s easy to honor a dead man. And in Drake’s case maybe it is, if Gosalyn gives her blessing. Drake was a hero before Launchpad ever came into the picture. All he needed was a push.

But what can Launchpad do? Jim died saving  _ him  _ after all. Whatever it is, living out the rest of his days in an old garage probably isn’t the best way to honor that sacrifice. 

“Knock knock.”

Launchpad startles, spilling soap suds everywhere.

The first thing he becomes aware of is that he forgot to close the garage door. The second is that Beakley’s standing by the limo, holding a small covered dish. 

“May I come in?” she asks when Launchpad just blinks owlishly at her. 

“Y-yeah, of course, Mrs. B,” he says quickly. He sets down the plate he was scrubbing, the gunk on it having hardened to the point where he’s willing to just throw it out so he doesn’t have to deal with the hassle. He dries his hands on a towel (which could also do with a wash) as Beakley approaches the kitchen island. 

“We missed you at dinner,” she says. The plate she sets down is covered with cling wrap, through which he can see salmon, rice and roasted vegetables. “However, I figured after the day you’ve had you didn’t deserve to go hungry.” 

He musters a smile. “Thanks, Mrs. B. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she says shortly, putting an end to the matter.

This time Launchpad’s smile is more genuine. “Well thanks again. You want something to drink while you’re here?” he moves to open the fridge, scanning its meager contents. “Let’s see, I’ve got Pep...milk—ugh, no that’s expired.” There were a few beers behind some boxes of old takeout, but he didn’t want to give Beakley any more reason to think him uncouth. 

“Is that an Indian pale ale I spy?” Beakley asks, as though dead set on surprising him at every turn. She pulls out his only bar stool, clearly intent on staying a while. 

Launchpad blinks. “Uh, yeah.” He reaches back to grab two beers with almost exaggerated slowness, half-expecting her to chastise him for his presumptuousness. She accepts one with a tilt to her brow he likes to imagine is more amused than exasperated. 

As he searches his jumbled drawers for a bottle opener, Beakley twists the cap off her beer singlehandedly and takes a brief pull. Seeing his awed stare, she rolls her eyes and holds out her hand for his beer as well. He passes it over and she screws the cap off with ease. Upon returning the bottle, she nods sharply at the plate of food between them. 

“Eat,” she orders. 

Launchpad salutes with his beer bottle. “Aye-aye, ma’am.” He turns around to unearth a clean knife and fork from the pile of clean dishes behind him. 

 “Dewey makes a terrible informant, but I was able to gather that today was...eventful?” Beakley says once he’s managed a few mouthfuls. 

He snorts mid-chew, belatedly remembering to cover his beak as he laughs. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Beakley looks at him expectantly. 

The humor bleeds out of his expression with a sigh. He crosses his arms and leans on the counter top between them, ignoring the food for now. “Yeah, I met Jim Starling. He, uh...wasn’t what I expected.”

Beakley mirrors him with a great deal more poise. “And what did you expect?”

“Darkwing Duck,” he replies at once, and he can’t keep the awe out of his voice. “Just like I watched as a kid. And as an adult.” He looks away as grief settles back over his ribs, thick as cement. “But he was just a man. A man who...who lost something. Lost himself, maybe.”

 Something that Launchpad, blinded by his fanaticism, realized too late. He didn’t see Jim for what he really was: a liar, a glory-hound, a desperate man with nothing to lose. He almost burned down the studio and everyone inside, and Launchpad is the one who brought him to the door. 

“Mr. McDuck was complaining about having to pay for the damages to the studio,” Beakley says, her casual tone briefly interrupted by the eye roll she only breaks out when Scrooge gripes about money. “But the actual extent of the damage was actually relatively minor, considering Mr. Starling had a functioning ray gun.” She sips her beer, her gaze piercing Launchpad over the bottle. “There was another Darkwing actor wasn’t there?”

He thinks of Drake, bursting into his own trailer at the sound of someone in distress. Drake, quiet and vulnerable on the couch, dented lunchbox in his lap. His desperate sprint to the bus stop, staggering back a step when Gosalyn threw herself against his legs. Drake, smiling at him from across the diner booth, sitting beside him in the limo on the way to St. Canard, the play of street lights and shadow across his face mesmerizing to watch. 

“Mrs. B, have you ever met someone someone so incredible that they make you reevaluate your whole life?” Launchpad asks, fidgeting with his beer. “Like, without realizing it, some part of you was just waiting for them to show up?”

“I have,” Beakley replies. 

Launchpad nods, unsurprised, but not dumb enough to pry. Beakley’s enigmatic at the best of times and so unpredictable that her ‘Drake’ could be anyone from Scrooge to Webby to a freedom fighter in Eagleslavia. 

“You should’ve seen him in action,” Launchpad says, aware that he’s gushing but beyond the point of caring. 

“I mean, I can handle a crash okay, but this guy? He drew Jim’s fire so that the studio could evacuate. He got hit with that ray gun, geez, I don’t know  _ how many  _ times, and he kept getting back up. Remember how I told you Jim always did his own stunts? Well he must’ve been holding back all those years ‘cause his hand-to-hand was brutal.”

Beakley leans back, the only physical indication of her astonishment. “And this friend of yours, he’s just an actor?”

“Not just any actor,” Launchpad says at once. “He’s the real deal.”

“Another superhero?” Beakley asks, and this time she raises a delicate brow. “My word.”

“Maybe. If he wants to be.” 

“It’s not an easy decision to make,” she allows. “But where do you fit in all this, Launchpad?” she spreads her arms, a casual gesture, though her gaze roots him in place. 

He feigns ignorance. “Me?” 

Against his better judgement, his heart skips a beat. After all, it’s the same question he’s been asking himself and he’s no closer to an answer than when Drake dropped his gaze,  _ I don’t know. This all sounds like it could get… _

_ Dangerous?  _ Launchpad had replied, a challenge he believed Drake could rise to meet because he believes in Drake Mallard. 

But where does that leave Launchpad McQuack?

“Yes, you,” Beakley answers dryly. “I’ve never heard you talk about anyone this way. Not even the real Darkwing.”

_ Drake is the real Darkwing,  _ Launchpad refrains from blurting. 

He shrugs instead. “Well it’s like I said. Meeting him changed everything. It got me thinking about what I’m doing with my life, if this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“And where do you think you’re supposed to be?”

“I...I don’t know,” Launchpad admits. “What I do know is that I want to...be there with him, whether or not he’s Darkwing.”

_ Do it for Jim,  _ he’d said. Maybe taking control of his life will be enough to honor that sacrifice. 

“Would your mystery gentleman be amenable to that?” Beakley asks coyly. 

Launchpad ducks his head to hide the blush he can feel rushing up his neck. “I think so,” he says. Hopes, really, but it’s too soon to tell.

He looks back up in surprise when Beakley reaches across the island to briefly squeeze his hand. “I’m happy for you, Launchpad,” she says, her smile unguarded and as maternal as he’s ever seen it. “Now finish your dinner before it gets cold.”

“No problem, Mrs. B,” he replies, and tugs his plate closer to him. 

His phone vibrates from within his pocket and he jumps, having forgotten it was there. He fishes it out with a sheepish glance Beakley’s way, well aware of her feelings regarding phones at the dinner table. 

The alert was for a new text message. 

Read 8:05 p.m.

_ See you next week _

 

Drake Mallard: Sent 10:27 p.m. __

_ How about next Thursday?   _

“Good news?” Beakley asks. A rhetorical question, if his smile is as big and stupid as it feels. 

“Yeah,” Launchpad says anyway, “I think so.”

  
  



End file.
